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26 “My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me.

27 “ To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign’d, a flame.

28 “Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove ;
Among the rest, young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

29 “In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

30 “And when, beside me in the dale,

He carollid lays of love;
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.

31 “ The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

32 “ The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine :
Their charms were his, but, woe to me!

Th’inconstancy was mine!

33 “For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain ;
And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.

34 “ Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

35 “But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

36 “And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

37 “ Forbid it, Heaven !” the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast :
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, -

'Twas Edwin's self that prest !

38 “ Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

39 “ Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign :
And shall we never, never part,

My life—my all that's mine?

40 “No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true ;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too."




THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating :
I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of vertû ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold—let me pause—don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ?
Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn,
It's a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr Burn.
To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,


1 Mr Burn:' Lord Clare's nephew.




So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose :
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's :
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's 1 H-d, and C—y, and H—rth, and H—ff,
I think they love venison—I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins—oh I let him alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But, hang it—to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a sbirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend, as he call'd himself, enter'd ;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and

me. “ What have we got here ?-why, this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting ?” “ Why, whose should it be ?” cried I, with a flounce : “I get these things often ”—but that was a bounce : “Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind—but I hate ostentation.”

“ If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, “ I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you

take a poor dinner with me; No words—I insist on't-precisely at three ; We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 60 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, We wanted this venison to make out a dinner.


1 • There's,' &c. : Howard, Coley, Hogarth, Hiff.



What say you ?-a pasty; it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter—this venison with me to Mile-end:
No stirring—I beg—my dear friend—my dear friend!”
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And “nobody with me at sea but myself ;”1
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; “ For I knew it,” he cried, “ both eternally fail, 71 The one with his speeches, and tother with Thrale ; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty ; The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew; They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge. While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen ; At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there were spinach, and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not.


See the Letters between Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Gros


12mo. 1769.

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